


Needs Must When The Devil Drives

by JoansGlove



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 10:52:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17323664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoansGlove/pseuds/JoansGlove
Summary: The problem with reaching the top is that once you're there, you'll find that there's always some bastard trying to knock you back down again.





	Needs Must When The Devil Drives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misslestrange274](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misslestrange274/gifts).



> For Misslestrange274 - payment for services rendered ;D
> 
> And as always, thanks to DirtyDuchess

Joan cocked her sleek head thoughtfully as she tried to ignore Doyle’s grubby sneaker propped against the edge of her desk. “No, you've lost me. How is suicide an indictable offence?”

 “Trafficking a drug of dependence…” The cocky young woman in the seat opposite narrowed her eyes slyly. “Fifteen years for a commercial quantity.”

“No doubt that knowledge will come in handy for you one day,” she replied smoothly, ignoring Doyle’s scornful laugh. “Why did you want to see me?”

“I know who sold Simmo the gear.”

“Who?”

“You.”

A glimmer of amusement crept into Joan's eyes. “How do you know that?” she asked mildly.

“Prima facie evidence. The gear that you had possession of ended up in Simmo's veins.”

“And you can prove this.”

“Maybe. Or...” Franky leaned forwards and lifted the bundle of business cards from their holder. “Maybe you could return the gear to its rightful owner…” she riffled the edges of the cards, bending them out of shape, “…I can forget it.” She knew that Ferguson was bent, but was she bent enough to go for it? Trepidation fluttered in her chest as she let her adversary mull the proposition over.

 

Rising, Joan manoeuvred herself between Doyle and the desk. Something approaching an indulgent smile softened her strong features as she towered over the prisoner. “You're very sure of yourself,” she said plucking the bundle of business cards from her fingers and knocking her foot to the floor as she replaced them in their holder. “I like that.” The smile fell from her face. “But you have a tendency to overplay your hand.”

Franky stared up at the Governor. To say she had mixed feelings would be an understatement. She hated Ferguson, and not just on principle either – the bitch had had Kim moved all the way across the other side of the prison, and she hated her too because she knew what she’d put in those letters to Erica. But the flip side to this was a sick and helpless attraction. It bothered Franky that each time she was close to the Governor a tight flicker of heat bloomed deep down in her belly. Her size and power were undeniable, she wasn’t pretty but she was a good-looking woman nonetheless. She was a woman that demanded to be looked at, and Franky did. More than was good for her.     

 

“Now, just supposing that I were prepared to do as you suggest, what would be in it for me?” Joan's lips curved into a benign smile as Doyle sneered in premature victory. This was all too easy thought Joan, smart though she was, Doyle was really nothing more than a two-bit hustler in raccoon eye makeup, and she was certainly no match for anyone who knew what they were doing.

“You get to keep your job. D’ya really want to end up on this side of the bars?”

“Oh, Doyle,” scoffed Joan, “my position’s in no danger – but yours is, isn’t it.” She let the warning sink in before softening her tone. “No, if I’m to agree then this transaction needs to be mutually beneficial. Don’t you think?” Her gaze slid from the prisoner’s face and down to her taut cleavage, lingering on the scar above her left breast as she idly wondered who had cut her, and why.

“Go on then, what do you want?”

“Good question, Doyle. What do I want?” she mused aloud and fixed the prisoner with a look as dangerous as a beartrap. “What have you got to offer?”

Caught in her inky stare, Franky swallowed hard. She didn’t want to give Ferguson a fucking thing - not that there was much she _could_ give without losing the respect of the women. Ferguson was testing her and she didn’t like it. “I’ll keep the women in line.”

“Really? Joan raised an eyebrow of disbelief. You haven’t been doing too good a job of that lately, have you, hm?” Leaning back against her desk she crossed her arms. “What else have you got?”

“I’m not gonna lag.”

“Not even if it means that you get to retain your title? I understand that you already have contenders snapping at your heels.”

“You mean Smith? Ha!” she put a little swagger into her laugh. “Red’s no threat to me, not if she knows what’s good for her.” And the same goes for you, too, thought Franky as she graced the Governor with her best arrogant grin before turning her head and pretending to look out of the window.

 

She felt Ferguson's eyes on her but continued to inspect the skyline as if she couldn’t care less. “How about I cut you in on the profits?” suggested Franky at length.

“Perhaps. How much do you propose?”

Franky did some quick mental arithmetic. “Fifteen percent.”

“Of the gross takings, naturally.”

Franky’s head snapped back around and she stared at Ferguson in wide-eyed alarm. “Get fucked! Of my profit.”

“That’s hardly worth my effort.”

“It’s enough!”

“I don’t think so, Doyle. Forty percent. Of the gross profit.”

“I’d go out of business. Twenty percent.”

“Fifty.” Franky hadn’t been expecting Ferguson to raise her demand and a panicky flush prickled the base of her skull.

Fuck this bitch, she thought to herself as Ferguson started to look bored. “OK, thirty,” she countered. “Look, that’s as high as I can go. I’m not bullshitting ya, any more and I can’t afford to operate.”

“Thirty percent! My, I’ll be a millionaire in no time!” came the mocking reply.

Thirty percent was a major chunk of money in anybody’s book. Franky scowled up at the Governor. “Take it or leave it, it’s the best I can do.” She looked away again as if she couldn’t care less about Ferguson's response, yet she couldn’t quite quell the uncertainty in her gut.

 

Joan took her time answering Doyle. It was always good to make your opponent sweat a little, even if your response was favourable. “OK, Doyle, I’ll take it. You have until Friday.”

“Come off it! You’ve gotta give me time to get rid. Not like they can bang it up all at once, is it?”

“Very well.” She eyed Doyle speculatively. “What do you propose to give me in the meantime?”

“Sorry?”

“I said what do you propose to give me between now and payday?” Joan pushed down a chuckle at the uncertainty flickering in Doyle’s eyes. “I mean,” she continued soberly, “it’s all well and good having something to look forward to but it’s even nicer to be given something to be going on with, isn’t it?” She smirked at Doyle’s bewilderment. “How about we seal the deal with something a little more personal. What do you say, hmm?” Sliding along the desk, Joan planted her feet either side of Doyle’s.

 

“Like what?”

A low chuckle escaped Joan's lips as a slow smile dimpled her cheeks. “Come on, Doyle, you're a woman of the world, what do you think?”

Once more, Franky found herself trapped in Ferguson's glittering gaze and she realised that she was holding her breath as taboo thoughts made her scalp prickle. “I’m thinking that you can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am, Doyle. Deadly serious.” Her smile widened as she watched the prisoner’s tongue dart out and wet her lower lip, the boldness draining from her face as the reality of the situation sank in.

You're asking me to…” Franky’s suddenly nervous gaze fell to Ferguson's crotch and she raised her hands in front of her as if pushing the outrageous idea away. “Nah, I’m not doing that,” she stated, pulling a face. Fucking a Governor like Ferguson was what weak Top Dogs did. Having dirty, sordid thoughts about fucking Ferguson was one thing, but actually doing it was a horse of a whole different colour, and even though her body was already responding to Ferguson's proposal, she wasn’t about to give into the bitch without a fight.

 

Joan pulled a face of hurt wonderment. “What, you don’t want to? But I thought that having, ah, an _understanding_ with the Governor was your speciality.”

Franky gave a snort and thrust out her chin defiantly as Ferguson grinned slyly. “Yeah, well, that was different. We had a connection from before…”

“So I’ve gathered, but not as much of one as you would have liked, I believe.” Joan dropped her voice to a seductive whisper. “Not quite as _in-ti-mate_ as you desired, hmm? Well, not to worry, all good things come to those who wait, as they say. And from the way you stare at me when you think I’m not looking, I’d say that you’ve been waiting long enough.”

She swallowed hard, alarmed at how easily Ferguson had picked her secret. And if she’d spotted it, then christ knew who else had too. The spurt of fear in her gut fired her indignation. “The fuck I have!” she exclaimed hotly.

“Oh, come now, Franky,” purred Joan. “I’ve seen you. I can see right through that tough guy act of yours, you know.  I know that look.” They stared at each other, neither willing to give ground. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” With an amused quirk of her lips she reached out and picked a piece of imaginary lint from Franky’s chest, idly examining it before discarding it with a flick of her long fingers and locking onto her eyes once more. “And what could be better than killing two birds with one stone, mm?”

She wasn’t about to give this devious bitch the satisfaction of being right. “Look, how about we up it to thirty-five percent and call it quits?”

Joan's hand snaked out and she gripped Doyle’s chin, drawing her awkwardly from her seat until they were close enough to kiss. “You're not getting it, Doyle,” she crooned. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

 

What the fuck had she got herself into? She felt sick as the internal battle between her needs and wants clamoured in her brain and in her chest. She was repulsed by the knowledge that this was one of the lowest things she’d ever do – Batesy had wanted an add-on but she’d stopped him in his tracks and now, here was Ferguson demanding the very same thing. But unlike Batesy, Ferguson had her over a barrel and there was nothing she could do about being forced into something she’d wanted for a long, long time.

A broad smile split Joan's face as Doyle’s wide, mobile lips set themselves in a straight line, and with the briefest of nods she forced an annoyed sigh of acquiescence from her pretty nose. “Good,” she purred and released her captive.

Ferguson eyes danced with a dark hunger and, with a fluid, cat-like movement, she stood and crossed to the office door. Opening it briefly, she gave a low order to her secretary and lowered the blinds that shielded her inner sanctum. Turning, she glanced at Franky and nodded towards the far corner of her office. “Go and wash up,” she ordered and began to adjust the lighting. Franky felt her dark eyes on her as she got to her feet and did as she was told. “And use the nail brush,” Ferguson called after her as she let herself into the box of gleaming white tile.

 

*****

 

As soon as she was out of sight of Ferguson, Franky sagged against the wall and raked her fingers through her hair in exasperation as she sought to rationalise what she was about to do. Whichever way you looked at it, Ferguson had her pinned - she could afford to lose the other stuff, but abandon the Pink Dragon? No, there was no way she could let that slip through her fingers because if she didn’t get paid, then her backers didn’t get paid; and she had nothing to reimburse the women who had pre-ordered with either – both outcomes were dangerous to her health. She had no choice; the decision was out of her hands. So, (she squared her shoulders and turned to inspect her makeup in the spotless mirror) if it was going to happen then she might as well make the most of it. Hell, she’d licked enough pussy in her time, why should Ferguson's be any different?

But it _was_ different, and she knew it. She wanted to wipe that arrogant smirk off Ferguson's face, she wanted to leave her begging for more, slave to the power of a prisoner. A dark longing twined itself between Franky’s legs, making her shudder luxuriously as it ruthlessly stripped her of any illusions; she wanted this as much as Ferguson, possibly more. She grimaced at her reflection and muttered, “fuck it, let’s do it.”

 

Buzzing with self-satisfied anticipation, Joan cleared her desk and laid a pair of small latex gloves from the first aid kit on the gleaming black surface. It had been so easy to force Doyle’s hand and she was looking forward to exacting her payment – screwing Doyle metaphorically was far more alluring than screwing her physically but she saw no reason not to do both if she could. Next to the gloves she neatly positioned two folded squares of the same material, she wasn’t about to risk her health and had taken the scissors to the largest pair of gloves in the kit leaving her with perfectly sized rectangles of fine latex, after all, who knew where Doyle’s mouth had been lately!

 

Still towelling her forearms, Franky sauntered back into the office. As she reached the broad expanse of desk, she flung the towel over the back of a chair and stood before Ferguson, thrusting her hands into her armpits as she awaited the next instalment of Ferguson's ‘deal’ to unfold.

In the space of a heartbeat Joan had slipped a finger beneath the strap of Doyle’s singlet, stroking her chest very deliberately with her large knuckles as she traced the curve of the neckline. “Off,” she commanded. She nodded at the garish, candy-bright bra. “That too.” As the heavily padded cups were peeled away Joan's hooded gaze fell on their modest contents and she smirked at the already hard nipples. Her ebony eyes slid stickily over Doyle’s high breasts, unmarred by pregnancy (yet disfigured by a tacky tattoo), and her hard, muscled belly, coming to rest at the low-slung waistband of her underwear; and fleetingly, she toyed with the idea of having Doyle fully naked but decided against inflicting the extra humiliation. That would come later.

 

With a self-indulgent smile on her crimson mouth, Joan positioned herself back against the edge of the desk; extending one long leg, she pushed the chair away then, with a slow flap of her hand, motioned for Doyle to kneel in the space before her. It felt good to have Doyle at her feet, this brazen young woman needed to learn her place. She held out the gloves and nodded in encouragement as Doyle fingered the creamy white latex. “Put them on.”

As Doyle slid her fingers home, Joan swiftly unzipped and slid her trousers and underwear off her waist, snagging the belted waistband against the edge of the desk so that they gathered around her thighs, and tucking away the corners of her jacket, only revealing what was necessary. Admiring her reflection in the dark window, she rolled her shoulders and slowly inclined her head towards the prisoner. “I’m expecting great things from you, Doyle,” she murmured and her smile widened to a shark-like grin.

Franky stared at the diamond of undulating, creamy flesh and at the dense, dark triangle marking its centre. Catching her lip between her teeth she tried again to tell herself that it was just a vag’, no big deal; but it wasn’t and she knew it.

 

Blood sang in Franky’s ears, the furious rushing competing with the sound of her wavering breath, and she glanced up at Ferguson's expectant face, finding herself drawn almost hypnotically into the mysterious universe that swam behind the ebony gleam of her eyes. Fear and excitement narrowing her throat, she tore her gaze away and raised her hands to the rounded swell of the woman’s exposed thighs, wondering how the hell to start.

 

The fabric of Ferguson’s trousers scraped deliciously against her bare breasts as she leaned forwards and blew lightly on the satin soft skin, smoothing away the tickle of her breath with gentle fingertips as she moved her puckered lips over the exotic terrain. Ferguson smelled of laundry soap and female musk, and she burned under Franky’s gloved hands as they flowed between flawless inner thighs. Ferguson's cunt nestled sweetly before her and, bringing her thumbs to the softness of her outer lips Franky traced their curve beneath the covering of lustrous hair - dark yet spangled like her head - and slowly, she massaged their plumpness, persuading them to separate and reveal the bounty hidden within until a glistening slash of pink peeked out at her.

And whilst she wasn’t exactly gasping in pleasure, Ferguson’s breathing had at least become a little louder, and Franky felt her own cunt respond with a sharp, dark flutter as the silken, rosy folds yielded under her touch.

 

Doyle’s touch became bolder and more insistent. With an enjoyable tingle playing along her senses, Joan rolled her head in pleasure as her pubic hair snagged on gloved fingers, and with a luxurious slowness, she arched her long torso, relishing the way her clothing chafed and compressed her crinkled nipples. Leisurely, her hand inched across the desk to the folded latex sheets and she fondled the cool, silky rubber for a moment before dropping one into her lap.

She smiled down at Doyle, her mouth widening as the prisoner’s kohl rimmed eyes grew large. “You know what to do,” she said archly with a flicker of her perfect eyebrows, and settled back to see if indeed, Doyle did.

 

She suppressed a shiver as Doyle smoothed the makeshift dam over her sex and stretched out her tongue to tease her clit. The sudden heat of her mouth was splendid and Joan pushed her breasts against the confines of her clothing once more, but she resisted the desire to pinch her aching nipples, determined to show as little response as possible and make Doyle work as hard as she could for her money. And work she did. Doyle bullied her chin into the narrow space between her thighs, face turning red as she tried to work her tongue along her snug channel.

 

Pulling away, Doyle raised her face to Joan's. “Look, if you want great things then you gotta give me more room.”

Watching her struggle was half the fun but Joan was on a schedule and dragging out proceedings was not, unfortunately, an option this evening. “Very well,” Joan acceded and lifted her hips, permitting Doyle to slide the fabric down her legs.

“Stockings!” she exclaimed as the deep nude bands encircling Joan's thighs were revealed. “Nice touch.”

“So glad that you approve.”

“Yeah. I always say that you can tell a lot about a woman who wears stockings.”

“I doubt that,” replied Joan coolly, and eased her feet, still in their trusty court shoes, out of her trousers.

 

Ferguson spread her legs and Franky was treated to the whole show. Her fragrant cunt was as well groomed as the rest of her... and just as alluring. Plumply soft outer lips parted to expose deep rose-pink folds draping from a pleasingly large clit, and she smelled so good! Jesus, if only Ferguson could have a personality transplant…

Shuffling closer, she stroked the baby soft skin of Ferguson’s inner thigh with her left hand, squeezing the creamy swell as she repositioned the rubber barrier and touched her parted lips to it, kissing the hot flesh that lay beneath. Then, stretching the dam tight, Franky teased Ferguson with slow, lazy sweeps of her tongue along the length of her split, listening for further changes in Ferguson's breathing to guide her, but the damn woman gave her no fucking clue whatsoever. Her frustration was compounded by having to use the bloody dam as well! Yes, the rubber may have been so fine that she could feel each coil of hair as it brushed the sides of her tongue, but no matter how thin it was, you still ended up working twice as hard for half the result. And if Ferguson wasn’t going to tell her what she wanted, or show her what she liked then she was damn well going to have to put up with what she was given!

 

Her hot skin was like brushed silk against Franky’s cheek and, relaxing the tension, she explored the deep crevices of Ferguson's cunt with a soft tongue, sucking and tugging on delicate inner labia as she slowly worked her way to the swollen clit, circling its peak before delivering a series of swift flicks. She saw the Governor’s belly quiver slightly in response (result!) and she lashed it again and again, eliciting a stiffening of Ferguson’s thighs, but still there no sighs or moans from her.

Relinquishing her clit for a moment, Franky found Ferguson's centre with her tongue and swirled it around in the well of slippery secretions, coating the latex with a hefty slick of unctuous juices before sliding it up and back over her clit, anointing her sticky pinkness with thick, creamy wetness as the dam slithered up and down the undulating valley. Her smell was so divine! It was almost torture; being surrounded by the heady, pungent scent of Ferguson's slippery cunt but tasting nothing but latex and her own saliva; and feeling her own cunt throb and twitch hotly between clenched thighs, knowing that there was nothing she could do to ease her need. Franky burned with a deep longing to taste Ferguson’s sweetly dark scent, to feel the marble smoothness of her bare clit against her tongue, to slide against her naked body, to slide inside her volcanic depths…

Raising her eyes, she found Ferguson's intense stare.

 

“Are you thinking of me or Erica?” asked Joan in a seductive whisper as Doyle’s tongue teased delicious shivers from her clit. “How far did she let you go, eh? A shared breath? A kiss?” A small, dark smile played across her lips as Doyle’s eyes narrowed. “A shared kiss? I know how much you wanted to fuck her. How did you put it now! Oh yes, ‘I think of you lying there, waiting for me to taste every inch of you, and I touch myself and imagine that it’s you…’.”

Franky’s gut tightened as she heard her own letter quoted back to her but she continued to lick. “You can see why Mr Channing thought it prudent not to post them can’t you, they’re positively indecent.”

“You're a bitch,” she muttered into the wet rubber.

“That’s one way of describing me, I suppose. No, don’t stop,” ordered Joan and pulled Doyle’s face firmly against her cunt. “I want to see just how extensive your repertoire is.”

 

“She’s attractive enough, if you like that commercially rich, glossy blonde way of hers,” continued Joan, a cruel edge to her low voice. “Oh yes, I’ve met her, and if I’d wanted to, I could have had her. Could’ve taken her back to some anonymous hotel room and _ruined_ her...” she smiled evilly, pleased at the visible tension it produced in Doyle. “But she’s rather out of _your_ league isn’t she, Franky?” she taunted. “Maybe that’s what the attraction was, hm? Do you measure your worth by the women you fucK? If that’s the case then you’ve hit the jackpot this evening. I’m more than you’ve ever dreamed of.” She flashed a congratulatory grin at the prisoner and winked as Doyle scowled up at her.

Franky said nothing, just bit down on her anger and pulled Ferguson's hips closer.  The change in position opened her cunt further to her lapping tongue and Franky buried her face in the moist triangle, working her tongue hard against the swollen lips.  Ferguson's breathing had barely changed but the steady trickle of wetness oozing over her glove showed that she was having a good time all the same. Dipping her head for the briefest of moments, Franky licked the forbidden liquor from her fingers and shuddered in primal lust.

 

Doyle was indeed a talented cunnilinguist but Joan wasn’t about to let her know that anytime soon. Riding the delightful rushes, she replayed Slater’s last moments in her head, congratulating herself on how the sleepy warmth of the little orange pill had loosened the prisoner’s tongue and rendered her helpless in the face of her impending fate. She’d offered no fight, no argument as Joan had described how she’d be taking it all away, all of the fear, all of the uncertainty, all of the pressure. If she killed Bea Smith (Joan had explained) then there would be a vacuum, and as nature abhors a vacuum so it would look for the next woman whose husband was useless and whose daughter had fallen under the spell of Brayden Holt’s heroin. She was saving her from a fate worse than death, she’d promised with a smile as she uncapped the syringe and slid the needle under Slater’s skin. Seven seconds for the heroin to reach her brain and another thirteen for her to asphyxiate from oedema. And then that deep, satisfying feeling of achievement; much like now, but for wholly different reasons.

 

She’d tried some of her best moves but Ferguson hadn’t even cracked it for a moan, and Franky was getting more than a little pissed off. She found herself wanting to possess Ferguson's perfect cunt, to make the arrogant bitch beg for it, for her to lose control and rip away that fucking dam as she offered herself up to the best fuck of her life.

Sore knees creaking with the effort, she pushed herself to her feet, gripping Ferguson behind her knees as she rose and lifting her legs so that she tipped backwards onto her elbows. “Enjoying yourself, yet?” she asked spikily as Ferguson cocked her head to one side and coolly studied her tits.

“I’ll let you know, Doyle.” She paused for a moment as she made herself more comfortable. “When it happens.”

 

Franky’s eyes narrowed. Fucking bitch was doing this on purpose! “Yeah, you do that,” she muttered and hooked a foot around the chair leg, dragging it towards her and dropping into the seat hard enough to send a throbbing surge through her cunt.  Without further ado, she encircled a taut thigh with her arm and got a fresh grip on the translucent rubber before lowering her face once more and catching Ferguson's clit between her teeth. She worried at the hard nub, lashing the sensitive peak with a rough tongue, and smiled to herself in satisfaction as Ferguson's belly quivered in response and her feet came to rest on the chair’s arms. Tightening her jaw, she jerked her head away. The sound of her teeth squeaking on the damp rubber was almost comical in the quiet of the office but she was more tickled by the sudden gasp it wrenched from the Governor. Gotcha! she thought smugly and took the hot button in her mouth again – she’d break the bitch if it was the last thing she ever did.

 

Joan was slowly melting under Doyle’s concerted efforts. Bright waves of sensation surged from her aching clit, their steady beat thrumming through her body and stoking the liquid fire deep in her loins; and she knew that she’d have to guard against stray urges lest she betray herself to Doyle – she’d already gone too far in responding so vocally to these delightful little nips, but what was done was done. Languorously, she watched Doyle’s dark head bobbing between her pale thighs, and for a split second, she wished that it was Vera's. But Vera was at home ‘taking care’ of her mother, and even if she weren’t, they were hardly at the stage where she could permit such an act. The thought of naïve, hesitant Vera brought Doyle’s coarse bravado into stark contrast and Joan gave herself a mental pinch.

“Come on Doyle, try something else.”

 

Franky grimaced. “O-kaay,” she drawled and pushed herself upright between the confines of Ferguson's thighs. “How about this?” Slapping the sticky, makeshift dam on Ferguson's belly, she braced one gloved hand on the desk beside her hip and curled the fingers of her other into creamy succulence before pushing them deep into Ferguson's slick heat, making the bitch’s nostrils flare in response. Franky thrilled as strong muscles gripped her fingers and the Governor’s breathing became pleasingly harsh as she found her g-spot; and Franky leant over her, feeling the heat rising up from her body warm her own bare skin as she stared into Ferguson's eyes. “How’s that workin’ out for ya?” she asked insolently and tickled her cervix. Ferguson stared at her tits and pursed her lips thoughtfully.

“Adequate, I suppose,” she said, almost begrudgingly, and returned her sphinx-like gaze to Franky’s face, no doubt to enjoy her reaction, but Franky was wise to her game now...  

“Geez, don’t go too overboard, will ya? Could give a girl a swollen head or somethin’,” she replied sarcastically.

“Don’t you worry, Doyle. It’s not in my nature.” Her focus settled once more on Doyle’s swinging breasts, and her mind’s eye she envisioned slapping them repeatedly with leather gloved hands until they glowed cherry red, shuddering a little as her own nipples responded sharply. She almost groaned in complaint as Doyle withdrew.

 

Stepping away, Franky slid her palms behind Ferguson's ankles, hoisting them high into the air and holding them with one white-gloved hand as the other damply trailed its way down the curves of her ridiculously long legs and settled in turn on the sumptuous globes of her bewitching backside. The firm swell filled her palm and she thought about slapping the bitch really hard – _really_ hard – but a sense of self-preservation stopped her hand from drawing back; instead, she squeezed roughly, fingertips dimpling the smooth surface and leaving ghostly imprints that blushed pink as she mauled the impossibly perfect posterior.

Without warning she plunged her fingers back into the ruby depths and, wrapping her arm around her knees, she dragged Ferguson close, snugging her calves into her bare shoulder as she began to fuck her in earnest.

 

Joan stretched luxuriously and lay back (trademark bun cushioning her head from the unforgiving desk) to watch Doyle in her endeavours. Pins dug into her scalp most pleasurably as Doyle’s fingers filled her once more, and she rode the bright pulses that flared each time the girl’s thumb brushed the tip of her clit, fingers splaying as she stroked the cool smoothness beneath her. With each thrust a sweetness filled her senses, washing over her defences and cradling her in a richly coloured warmth that loosened her spine and insinuated itself into her core, driving her excitement higher and higher until she could deny her body’s responses no more. She heard her desk furniture sliding across the polished surface as she spread her arms - there went her business cards, and a gentle rattle signified the loss of her beloved yellow pencils. Her nipples ached in their prison of cloth and she pushed against the confines of her clothing, twisting a little in Doyle’s embrace as delicious tension gathered low down in her belly.  

 

Fucken hell, Ferguson looked so hot right now! Hotter than anything she’d ever imagined. Franky’s tongue flickered over her lower lips as she stared at the Governor. Lips caught between her teeth, Ferguson's nostrils flared as she drew in great lungfuls of air and let them out in fractured snorts, her normally creamy skin was stained by a hectic blush high up on her cheeks and low down on her long throat – bared above her starched collar as she threw back her head and clawed at the desk – she looked magnificent.

Seeing Ferguson turned on like this, Franky’s clit hammered like fury inside her damp underwear. She was so wet that she could feel her swollen cunt squelch with every movement, and she stopped her thrusting and began to twist her hand to and fro like a metronome, her thumb scraping side to side over Ferguson's hard clit as she pushed her own aching split against the solid swell of naked arse and began to slowly grind. Closing her eyes, she gave herself over to sensation, losing herself in the velvety heat that bit deep and strong. Her needy lips found Ferguson's calf and they scraped over the fine hose as she rubbed her face against the warm skin, her legs weakening as she was pulled under by the current of her desire.

 

A sharp exhalation brought her back to the moment and she opened her eyes to see Ferguson almost writhing in pleasure. Her enticing lips were stretched over perfect, white teeth as she gasped and her dark eyes flickered behind fluttering lids. Franky stared in wonder (and no small amount of professional pleasure) at the sight of the Governor without her mask. Her eyes fell to the way Ferguson’s tunic strained over her breasts - and she wanted to reach out and grab them; to the crescent of exposed belly - and she wanted to rip away that frikkin uniform and skim her hands over hot skin. A sudden pulse arced through her cunt and Franky clung to Ferguson, her hip forcing her hand deeper into her slurping wetness as she leaned heavily against the taut meat of her arse.

“Looks like you're enjoying yaself now, eh?” she panted, as Ferguson's thighs tensed beneath her grip.

 

Doyle was getting far too confident for Joan's liking. There was to be no happy ending for her, despite what she may be thinking. Pushing the dam between her thighs she snapped into Governor mode and fixed the prisoner with a direct look. “Get down there, Doyle. See if you can’t finish the job before lock-up, hmm?”

Even now she was still playing her fucking games! Franky shook her head in distaste and straightened Ferguson's legs, delivering a trail of seductive bites from her calves down to the curve of her arse, building the tension before she grabbed the tops of the bitch’s thighs and pushed her face deep into her cunt to run her tongue up the meaty channel. Her clit throbbed hotly as she bent over, and she crossed her legs, rubbing them together as she tried to keep the delicious spark burning as Ferguson made a sound deep in her throat and drew her knees up to her chest.

 

Unrestrained, the sticky scrap of rubber quickly folded over on itself and once more, Franky tasted the Governor’s rich secretions; but the edge of her tongue brushed against Ferguson's slippery, naked cunt and she was unceremoniously pushed away – the heels of Ferguson's court shoes sharp against her chest as the back of her knees hit the chair and she fell into the cool leather seat.

She sat, waiting. Drawing air over her tongue, savouring the Governor’s deep musk, eyeing the infuriating woman as Ferguson righted herself and a clean dam appeared in her hand. “On your knees, Doyle,” she ordered. Summoning up the last of her saliva, Franky complied.

 

“Head back, tongue out.” Joan commanded as she stood and tucked her shirt-tails beneath the hem of her tunic once more. “Flatten it.”

She draped the small rubber sheet over Doyle’s mouth and ordered her to grip the lower corners then she stretched the dam over Doyle’s nose, resting her curled fingers on the smooth shelf of her brow as she forced the prisoner’s head back to what she knew would be a painful angle. Straddling Doyle’s face, Joan ground her clit against the captive tongue as she welcomed the gnawing tightness that quickly grew deep down in her belly. She rode Doyle’s face just as she’d ridden Vera's, coaxing her threatening orgasm with thigh-quivering thrusts of her hips until her breath was all but whistling in her throat.

 

In the darkened window, the Governor’s face shone like ivory, her dark eyes flashing as they traced the thin rind of moon hanging low in the night sky, red lips parting as a deep groan emerged from her trembling throat.

She was close, so close, but she couldn’t find the right angle to tip her over the edge. Closing her eyes, she thought of Maggie, remembering the time back at Rawmarsh Prison when Maggie had fucked her with her baton on the Governor’s desk. Naked from the waist down, she’d sprawled on a bed of papers as Maggie smothered her cries with a gloved hand and fucked her to within an inch of her life. The smell of tobacco and leather was strong in her memory and Joan shook, every muscle in her body tensing as the leading wave burst in a paralysing explosion, releasing an oily shockwave that ripped choked, guttural gasps from between clenched teeth in its wake, leaving her boneless and gaping, prey to the clawing, blinding rush that held her breathless and shining as she curled around its steely fist, and, around Doyle’s head.

 

With a shuddering sigh, Joan fell back against her desk and caught her breath. The dam still dangled from her fingers and, eyeing Doyle thoughtfully, she spread it over her palm and stroked her deliciously sensitive quim, smearing her thick juices over the surface before transferring it to Doyle’s face. She wiped her scent over the flushed skin, the razored strands of hair; stuffing two fingers deep into her open mouth she encouraged Doyle to suck every last trace of her from the rubber.

Their eyes locked. “I have to say, Doyle,” she purred, “I was expecting more from you. After those letters, well…” Joan smiled pityingly and traced Doyle’s lower lip with her thumb. “But you acquitted yourself well enough.”

Franky scowled and jerked her head away. Angry words bubbled in her chest but she had more sense than to queer the deal at this late stage. Fingers trailed across her bare shoulders. “Get dressed,” said Ferguson and, gathering up her own clothes, disappeared into the wet room.

 

****

 

They were back where they started – her in the chair and Ferguson standing over her. “So, can I have it?” Franky stared expectantly up at Ferguson. She reeked of cunt.

“Have what?”

“The gear.”

“Oh.” Ferguson regarded her coolly and at length she gave a small frown and shook her head. “No, I don’t think that would be wise, do you? My job is to clean this prison up, not add to its woes.” Franky felt herself pale as hatred flared in her gut.

“We had an agreement. You fuckin’ played me, you bitch.” She was shafted without the smack, there was no way she could get more and she’d done all her dough. The women would rip her apart. 

The desperation in Doyle’s eyes was so delicious that Joan couldn’t keep the smug smile of self-satisfaction from her lips. “Mmm, it appears so. But it wasn’t _all_ bad now, was it, hmmm?” she asked with a trademark tilt of her large head as the prisoner grimaced.

 

“Could always ring the ombudsman. Make a shitload of noise,” Franky threatened. But even as she said it, she knew that it was a hollow threat.

Picking up the phone, Joan offered the receiver to Doyle who stared up at her in sullen anger. Doyle had nowhere to go, and she knew it. With a smirk, Joan replaced the receiver and returned the phone to her desk. “Are we done?” She turned and rounded her desk. “I think we are done,” she said, pulling out her chair.

Franky tried one last sally. Planting her hands on the desk, she leaned toward to Ferguson. “How do you know it was suicide? You said it was suicide. Maybe it was an accidental OD.” She stared intently at Ferguson as she sat down in her big chair.

“Slater had a history of drug abuse. I'm sure she knew exactly what she was doing.”

Franky wasn’t about to be fobbed off. Red’s words came back to her with startling clarity. “Then why wasn't there any blood in the syringe? She should have drawn blood into the syringe to make sure it was in her vein.”

“How do you know she didn't?”

“Because the gear left in the needle was pink, not red. So, she didn't inject herself.” The sudden realisation that she was face to face with Simmo’s murderer made her reel inwardly. “Someone gave her a hot shot.” She watched the Governor’s face closely, heart beating wildly as she searched for a reaction but Ferguson just continued to stare at her.

 

Joan had known that it was a calculated risk but a junkie overdosing rarely drew much scrutiny, and only someone with a vested interest would have spotted that small detail, someone like Smith for instance, and now Doyle… But her plan had come to fruition – Smith was still alive and blamed Doyle directly for Slater’s death, and it wouldn’t be long now before she made a move for Top Dog. In the meantime, however, it couldn’t hurt to wrongfoot Doyle a little more, in fact it could prove to be most entertaining.

The tiniest flicker of smugness softened the Governor’s features and she stood up, mimicking Franky’s stance and forcing her to stand back. “If you really want to play detective, Doyle, I have a far more interesting mystery for you.” She leaned closer, bringing their eyes level. “How do you think we knew exactly where the drugs were stashed? You should be less concerned with how Simmo expired and more worried about the fact that... you have an informer in your ranks.”  



End file.
